


Two Time

by phobiaDeficient (TheTriggeredHappy)



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Comedy, Drama, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Polyamory, Spy trying to be a good dad just this once and kind of fucking it up, dad!spy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 09:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20225827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTriggeredHappy/pseuds/phobiaDeficient
Summary: “Sniper, how come your mom lets you have TWO boyfriends?”Spy tries to find a reason to keep the Sniper far, far, far away from his son. He comes up with many, and at least a few good ones.(A birthday gift)





	Two Time

**Author's Note:**

> [[happy late birthday wes you nerd kid, enjoy being like 12 now]]

Now, it wasn’t exactly Spy’s business, but not many things were.

He’d dropped his little habit of sneaking cloaked around the base to keep an eye on his coworkers, sometime around the eight-month mark of being posted with all of them out in this god-forsaken desert, satisfied that indeed none of them were plotting to kill him, nor did they have the specific skill sets to do so even if they wanted to. That said, he didn’t need to sneak around to take notice of what might have been a _development_.

Namely, a development between their Sniper and Scout.

At first it was just Scout pestering the Sniper before matches, rattling off about music, mainly. Then he was moving to sit next to Sniper at meetings, and meals, and on more than one occasion when Spy was outside sneaking an extra cigarette or two, he spotted Scout dashing to or from Sniper’s actual camper.

Which wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do _at all_, for several reasons. The first of which being that he didn’t like Sniper, and therefore didn’t think that Scout should be interacting with him. The second of which being that he didn’t trust Sniper, and therefore didn’t think that Scout should be interacting with him.

He tried to broach the topic.

It was relatively early in the afternoon, and most of the other mercenaries were either off-base or knee-deep in their various projects or chores. He knew that both the Engineer and their doctor were locked away working on projects, that the Heavy was doing work on his gun, that the Demoman and Sniper had set out on a trip into town, that the Pyro was burning the base’s trash (as they did every other week), and the Soldier was in the training room and according to his own strictly-followed schedule would not be leaving until three hours later.

So this conversation would go uninterrupted.

As he anticipated, Scout entered the common area five minutes after Spy settled himself down in the armchair. He’d chosen the one that was immediately clearly visible from the door, which would give Scout options in 1.) deciding he didn’t want to be anywhere near Spy (he knew this conversation wouldn’t happen if Scout was already not in the mood to interact with him) and 2.) one of two places that Scout could potentially sit. He wouldn’t take the armchair directly next to Spy’s, and likely wouldn’t take the one directly parallel across the table from him, meaning he could sit either on the couch or the armchair diagonal him. Both were of a good angle for conversation, except Spy was holding a newspaper, up in front of his face to practically form a barrier between him and the rest of the room. Either chair Scout chose between the two of them would be slightly inconvenient to storm up out of, giving Spy slightly more elbow room for the upcoming conversation.

Scout didn’t pause in the threshold of the common area, strolling in through the door and holding momentum as he vaulted over the back of the couch, landing with a bounce and kicking his legs up over the arm, lying sideways on his back and promptly tucking into his little sketchbook.

Generally, Spy would get on his case about that, how he was going to leave a dent there with his legs up and maybe kick the lamp down off the side table, and ruin the springs with his little bouncing trick, and how he’d get graphite all over the cushions with how he haphazardly scribbled across the pages, and how he really didn’t need to be popping his bubblegum so loudly.

This time, he didn’t. He kept his newspaper up and waited for how long it would take Scout to settle in.

An eye on his watch, he waited eight minutes, and an additional two and a half for good measure. Then he folded his newspaper and set it in his lap.

As expected, the noise and shift made Scout glance over. He popped the bubble he’d blown in his gum.

“What are you drawing?” Spy asked levelly.

Scout popped his gum again before answering. “None’a your fuckin’ business,” he said just as levelly, and went back to drawing.

Usually, Spy would snap or snark back at him, and they’d bicker, and it would become an argument, and one of them would storm out. This time, he just picked his newspaper back up and went back to reading.

Halfway through the article, Scout popped his gum again. “It’s a dog,” he said flatly.

Spy lowered the newspaper a bit. “A dog?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he said. He wasn’t looking at Spy. “It’s, uh, one’a those little short hotdog-lookin’ guys.”

“Dachshund,” Spy supplied.

“Gesundheit,” Scout shot back.

Spy forced himself to take a deep breath, and stayed silent.

“What are you reading?” Scout asked after only a second.

“News, of the county scale.”

“Boring,” Scout mumbled.

“This is boring?” Spy asked, raising an eyebrow and turning the page around to face Scout.

Scout looked over, and stared at the page for a few seconds in silence. “I’m upside down, Spy, I can’t read whatever the fuck that says,” he said flatly.

Spy was aware that Scout likely couldn’t have read what it said had he been right-side-up, either, but held back the urge to remark upon it. “It’s about our team, yet another article on our various crimes against the public,” he said flatly.

“Like?” Scout asked dryly, returning to his drawing.

Spy tried not to grit his teeth. “Oh, just arson, destruction of property, grand larceny, possession of _numerous_ illegal firearms and weapons of destruction—“

“I speak English, douchebaguette, try usin’ that,” Scout snarked.

“All of them, Scout. We’ve done practically all of the crimes,” Spy said. An exaggeration? Maybe. But not by much, as far as he cared. “As far as the press is concerned, we’re domestic terrorists.”

“And we didn’t even make it in above the fold,” Scout said sarcastically, scribbling in a line carelessly.

Spy drummed his free hand against the arm of his chair and desperately wished he had a cigarette. “Then again,” he finally said. “I suppose we didn’t _all_ do many of these. Only a few of the team have participated in these... shenanigans.”

Scout seemed to catch his tone, and he glanced back at Spy, eyebrows drawing together.

“The large majority of these crimes—publicly known ones from recent years, at the very least—were done by a select number. Destruction of property and arson are naturally Pyro’s doing, and quite a few crimes were committed by our Soldier, and a few done in tandem with the Soldier by our Demoman. Indiscreet black market trading from our Medic. Weapons testing by our Engineer.” He drummed his fingers against the chair again. “And plenty of murders in the form of contract hits are under the belt of the Sniper.”

“There it fuckin’ is,” Scout muttered, rolling his eyes dramatically and returning to drawing, heaving a great sigh.

“I’m just saying that he’s a very dangerous man with a very dangerous past and a suspiciously thin file,” Spy said shortly.

“Like I’m not dangerous. Like _you’re_ not dangerous too,” Scout shot back.

“The circumstances are different. He had very little incentive to become a mercenary—“

“Yeah, circumstances, huh? We’re talkin’ about circumstances now?” Scout asked sharply, gaze snapping back to Spy. "Sure thing, let's talk circumstances."

Spy was an international agent of espionage. He was wanted dead or alive under at least 15 aliases in 57 countries across five continents. He knew what bait sounded like, and he knew not to take it. But admittedly, that one took a long, deep breath to hold himself back from.

“I’m just saying,” Spy said, slowly and carefully, “that you should choose the individuals you fraternize with based on factors other than one, their proximity to you, and two, height and a pair of sunglasses.”

Scout was scribbling hard enough that it seemed like he was going to rip the page. “There’s other reasons,” he said through gritted teeth. “And you don’t exactly get a say in my life—love life or any other part of it, okay?”

This was an opportunity that Spy didn’t expect to have, and it was an almost uncomfortably long moment before he manages to force himself to give his response. “And how might that change?” he asked, voice even.

Scout stopped scribbling, pencil staying against the page. He didn’t look up. He didn’t look up.

And then he was sitting up, feet returning to the floor, sketchbook flipping closed and pencil returning to behind his ear.

“Talk to me for another twenty-two years or so and maybe I’ll think about it,” he said shortly, and didn’t look Spy in the eye, and left the room in only as much of a hurry as he generally got around.

Spy waited until Scout was definitely gone before he allowed himself a heavy sigh and began to fold up his newspaper.

* * *

Scout had specifically said “love life”, so at least part of the situation was confirmed.

Even if that particular confirmation only made it more worrisome.

Spy realized that he would need more information. More incentive for Scout to stop his little game and see that Sniper was a deliberately dangerous individual and was not worth the blood and tears he would undoubtedly bring about. He set to doing a bit of digging, finding the records of what kills were confirmed to be Sniper’s work back before he was hired by Mann Co. and was just a lone gunman taking high-profile jobs in all the shiny new parts of Australia. He started assembling them into a single file, working up a case. As he worked, he took note that Scout was apparently starting to go on occasional outings with Sniper, and was talking to him between matches, darting across roofs and up ladders to whatever nest the man happened to be occupying.

He dug deeper.

Shortly before he figured he had enough concrete evidence to make a convincing argument, he figured he might as well go talk to some other members of the team, hear their opinions as professional hired killers about this other hired killer they happened to work with. He talked briefly with the Heavy, who agreed that Sniper, softspoken and well-mannered as he was, was still a dangerous and complex individual who was not to be crossed by anyone who might fall for any reason under his crosshairs. He talked less briefly with the Engineer, who’d apparently had more than one discussion with the Sniper over the years. He filled in vast gaps in what history had been pieced together about the man, said that he really had mainly spent large portions of his early life hunting and tracking, learning essential survival skills.

The Engineer, halfway through a sentence, stopped suddenly and asked what exactly Spy was inquiring for. Spy made a call, and decided to admit to at least the summary of what he was doing.

The Engineer frowned, and pushed his goggles up onto his forehead. “Now why on earth are you tryin’ to steer Scooter away from that man?” he asked. “The two of them do an awful lot of good for each other.”

Spy frowned right back. “Your meaning?”

The Engineer put down the box of miscellaneous screws he’d been sorting, sighing lightly, scratching at the back of his neck with one hand. “Look, back when we got here, Stretch didn’t much like talkin’ to anyone, y’see,” he started to explain. “Years of isolation took a toll on the man’s social skills, and then years of hitman work drilled in some bone-deep distrust. He cooped himself up in his little caccoon and didn’t leave for nobody. I managed to work ‘im out of his shell enough to show up for meals and spare a glance every now and then instead of his trapping for rabbits out west just to avoid having to shop for groceries, on Miss Pauling’s orders, me chosen for my being so hospitable and whatnot, apparently—“ Spy rolled his eyes and Engie didn’t notice, “—and even then it was hard to get a stray word out of the man. But it was Scooter and our good Demoman who did the rest of the work for me.”

“Demoman?” he repeated, frowning.

“Yeah. Scooter pestered Sniper into conversations until he got used to ‘em, and Demo brought him out of his shell with good old-fashioned drinking games and stories. Now, I understand that Scotland and Australia are two opposite sides of the globe and all, but the two really hit it off over their, uh, shared vocabulary, if you would,” Engie explained further.

Spy considered that. He’d indeed noticed and understood that Sniper and Demo occasionally hung out over drinks, but he’d written it off as Demo’s usual amicability. He hadn’t really figured it as much more than that, and all at once realized that indeed, it was odd for Sniper to willingly go to something of a social event with even one of his teammates.

“Now, I ain’t much for gossip, you know,” Engie finally relented, putting his hands up. “If you want more information on the subject, talk to Demo or Sniper yourself.”

“I believe I will,” Spy said gravely, standing from his seat and adjusting his jacket crisply.

Engie paused, a hand back on the box of screws. “Don’t you think you’re taking this a touch too seriously?” he asked, voice slow.

“No, I don’t,” he said just as crisply.

* * *

Demo was easy to track down and easier to talk to, with Spy being offered a cold drink by the time he’d gone two steps into the room and a comfortable seat by the time he got to four.

Spy accepted his offer on both, and not very long later found himself sitting in an armchair with a glass of scotch not far from where Demo was working at his bench with some tangle of wires.

“So, what can I help you with?” Demo asked brightly.

Spy was aware that with his teammate the Demoman, there were “up” days and there were “down” days. From the number of projects on his desk, and the alertness and fluidity that he had as he tugged and adjusted the wires before him, it appeared to be an “up” day.

“Why do you assume I need something?” he asked in reply. “Can I not simply stop by to enjoy the company of one of my teammates in what free time we have available?”

“Spare me the theatrics, mate,” Demo chuckled good-naturedly. “Not many people enjoy the company of a bomb-maker when he’s in the midst of his work.”

Admittedly, he had a point. It was a bit nerve-wracking seeing Demo move to fiddle with what was clearly some kind of detonator and watching a light somewhere within the wires blink in reply.

“A poor bomb-maker, perhaps,” he said after a second. “But if you were a bad demolitions expert—“

“—I wouldn’t be here discussing it with you,” Demo finished with another laugh. “Alright, now I _know_ you’re here for more than just the chatter.”

“Maybe just a particular kind of chatter,” Spy acquiesced, and took a drink of scotch. Outside of his usual acquired-taste venom, Demo did indeed know how to pick good liquor. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about one of our teammates.”

“Ask away then,” Demo said, gesturing with the hand not up to its wrist in the mess.

“I wanted to ask you some things about our Sniper,” he said.

Demo didn’t exactly flinch, but being that he was on Demo’s right, he did notice the way the man blinked. “Christ, already?” he asked, taken aback. “Well that didn’t hardly take any time, did it?”

Spy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Just go on,” Demo said, gesturing again.

“I just wanted to know your impression of the man, professionally speaking,” Spy said, a bit slowly.

Demo’s eyebrow rose. “Oh. That’s all, then?”

Spy let a moment of silence fall between them. “What did you think I was going to ask?”

“Nothing,” Demo said, waving the question off. “My professional opinion, you said? Well, out of all of the rest of us here, he’s by far one of the most intimidating, what with him being able to knock down blokes clear on the other side of the field and all. Dedicated to his work and craft, for sure.”

“Dangerous?” Spy pushes.

“To who he’s paid to be and to whoever he thinks he has to be,” Demo agreed.

Spy hummed, taking another drink of his scotch, carefully measuring how much of an effect it would have on him and deeming it worth his time to take the drink slow, on the off chance that Demo offered him another and it would be most polite for him to accept the offer. “Not to become a _terrible_ gossip,” he said slowly, “but on the subject of loyalty.”

Demo glanced over at him, brow furrowed, clearly confused at his exact meaning, before he looked back at his work.

“Some of our team are loyal to our employer, some to employment, and some to our coworkers. Which category would you think he falls under?”

Demo hummed, considering the question for a good few moments. “I’d say it’s a bit more complicated than that, lad, but if I had to venture a guess...” he said slowly, “...I think employment, but for the sake of having coworkers, if that makes any sense.

Spy frowned. “Elaborate?”

“Don’t think it’s my place to,” Demo shrugged. “That’s really all you wanted to ask about?”

“In summary, yes.”

Demo hummed again, and pulled a pair of wire cutters from beneath some other construction, snipping at some wires and stripping the plastic from off of them, reaching for pliers a moment later. “You’d be the sort who’s dedicated to the employer, then, aye?” he asked, not unkindly, just a little disappointed.

“Or perhaps that is simply what I want you to think,” Spy said, only somewhat joking.

Demo laughed, the loud unabashed way that he tended to do. “That _is_ the way you tend to like things, innae, you snake?” he prodded, looking away from his project even as he started twisting wires together with practiced motions.

“As is my job,” Spy chuckled.

Demo paused for a moment, tapped the pliers against the table. “S’pose if I had to put myself into one of those three boxes, I’d be the third one,” he decided. “Puts me in an odd place, being a DeGroot and all. Knowing that I could get a job damn near anywhere, for damn near anyone. Not terribly desperate for a job, since I s’pose anywhere I work would give both eyes and half a leg to keep a legacy demolitions expert on hand.”

“And you chose to work _here_?” Spy laughed bitterly.

“I can get a _job_ just about anywhere I go,” Demo stressed. “Can’t get a pack of lads who’ll want to keep around a black, one-eyed disgrace of an alcoholic around just anywhere.”

“You’re very good at what you do,” Spy allowed after a bit of consideration, and took another drink. “And you’re a skilled bartender.”

Demo grinned. “That I am, lad. That I am.”

* * *

He continued to gossip idly with Demo for some time before he decided to go back on his way, and he wasn’t sure whether he got the information he’d wanted from the conversation.

It was very much like Demo to just compliment the man instead of providing insight into the fact that he was as unstable and remorseless as the rest of them, a mercenary by choice and nothing less. Not that Demo was dishonest; all the things he’d said were, admittedly, true.

Spy was forced to consider that instead of giving Spy information he’d wanted, Demo had provided him the insight that he’d needed.

Perhaps... he could _tolerate_ a relationship between his son and Sniper. It wasn’t as if they were getting _married_, he doubted it was anything even remotely serious, and it was doubtful that Sniper would outright break the boy’s heart. He could, just this once, despite the way it made him shudder in distaste... trust Scout’s judgement.

Over the next several days, he returned to the decision often. Flip-flopped. Decided that no, Demo was wrong and Scout was wrong and the Engineer was wrong and that Sniper needed to be kept far, far away from his youngest son. Thought it over again and decided that maybe Demo had a point and that it wasn’t his place anyways. Back and forth and back and forth again.

He caught sight of the Scout tipping up onto his toes to kiss Sniper on the cheek after a match while he was walking from their Resupply, and he realized, well, perhaps he was too late to say anything anyways. He didn’t stick around.

He was just in he midst of an upswing, having decided that even if Sniper _was_ bad news that Scout was an adult who would just need to learn that for himself, when a curveball was thrown into the equation.

He was heading to his smoking room—not even walking quietly, not even sneaking!—when he passed by the storage room that Demo had repurposed into his own workshop, and he’d heard voices talking, and had, naturally, glanced in the cracked door as he walked by, and he’d seen that talking was _not_ all that was going on.

The Sniper and Demo were sat together on the bench. Kissing like the world was ending outside.

Charlatan. Scoundrel. Deceiver. Fraud. Swindler. _Bastard_.

A _cheater_, of all things!

To hell with Scout learning for himself, he was _not_ going to allow their Sniper to string his son along and exploit his optimism and trust in others for—for _kicks_.

He was so startled by the information that, upon reaching his smoking room, he almost lit one of his everyday cigarettes rather than settling in to enjoy the latest artisan brand he’d procured, but—to hell with it, he wasn’t going to be settling in to enjoy anything just then. He had a murder to plot.

But he realized three things all at once:

First, that this information, even now, caught early on, would without a doubt break Scout’s heart if brought to light. He didn’t need to resort to his usual methods to come across the information that Scout’s past held some terrible luck in his relationships—he offered it up willingly in the form of quips throughout stories. Finding out that, yet again, he’d managed to snag himself a complete bastard? It would not go well.

Second, that this would also undoubtedly cause some kind of fight. Demo, a kind individual as he was, had a temper to match that of any of his teammates, easily. He wasn’t one to just lie down and take fighting words or transgressions. Undoubtedly it would be brought to his attention that he was being two-timed, and there would almost surely be a brawl, particularly if he tried to pick a fight with Scout (who was no pushover himself).

Third, that considering how unstable he and Scout’s relationship as both coworkers and individuals was... it was possible Scout wouldn’t even believe him.

How to bring it up. How to make sure that the dynamic of the entire team wasn’t shattered beyond repair. How to make sure that Sniper would be the only one facing consequences for poor choices.

A plan was formed between fretful puffs of nicotine.

* * *

Two things were important: timing and execution. He had to be careful. He had to form a plan.

He was aware that Sniper went to team dinner exactly twice a week—Wednesdays and Saturdays. Any additional days were due to special menus or specifically when the food was barbecued outside in view of his camper. Wednesdays were also the day of the week that the Engineer usually skipped, as he was often working on some project or another. The Medic always missed a meal on the day that a shipment came in, and the Heavy often missed to help him if the shipment arrived early. Pyro was a bit of a wildcard in all things, but without fail, if they were asked to “get rid of” something (for Spy, it was often documents he’d finished reading), they would spend the evening doing a little bonfire. Soldier wouldn’t turn up for meals if the dish was primarily or exclusively non-meat items (or Spy’s blatantly foreign cooking style), and both Demo and Scout turned up without fail to every team dinner with the occasional exception of weekends should they be otherwise preoccupied on a trip into town to get what they sometimes dubbed “real food”.

It was easy work to place an order for specialty wine and ask Miss Pauling for the minor favor of moving up the date of the next shipment. It was also easy on Wednesday to mention offhandedly the terribly un-American vegetable ratatouille he was planning for dinner to their Soldier, and take the file of what was essentially receipts on their Sniper and to give it to Pyro for disposal. He asked, stood next to the Engineer and finishing up his cigarette, waiting in the line of people teleporting back to base, whether he should set out a plate for dinner or if he was otherwise occupied with projects, and was assured that actually, the Engineer was fairly certain he would be making a breakthrough that night and therefore wouldn’t be joining them. Medic, pausing before stepping through the teleporter, mentioned that he and Heavy would also be busy with the surprise shipment and not to wait up for them.

Pieces set, Spy just had to wait until dinner.

At exactly 6:15, all of the food that he had cooking either needed to rest or had at least ten minutes left before it needed to be checked on. He could hear three distinct voices coming from outside the kitchen at the large table they used for team meals; a high, chirping tenor, a lively, dramatic baritone, and a low, scratchy growl. Scout, Demo, and Sniper were where they were expected to be.

Spy took off his cooking apron and straightened his tie in a single, sharp motion.

He stalked from the kitchen towards the table, allowing his grim determination to be present in the way he walked, the set of his jaw. All three, being trained mercenaries, took note of him immediately, and each had a different reaction to him. Demo, on the right in their little line, grinned at him and tipped his head up in greeting. Scout, on the left, already looked irritated by whatever conversation was about to take place. Sniper, in between the two (shameless bastard), noting his expression foremost, looked wary.

As he should.

Spy stood before them across the table, bracing both hands on its surface as he leaned forward over it, leveling his most venomous glare directly down his nose at the Sniper. “Bushman,” he drawled. “Would you _horribly_ mind answering me a question?”

“Can you not do this?” Scout asked, crossing his arms and leaning his chair on its back legs. “I told you to fuck off about my life.”

Sniper, glancing between the two of them, looked confused. Spy, a professional, simply bit back the very minor hurt that Scout’s utterly careless tone instilled in him.

“Unfortunately, Scout, this isn’t just your life,” Spy said patiently. “This conversation concerns more than just you. In fact!” He turned a significantly friendlier gaze towards Demo, who also seemed confused by the goings-on. “Mr. DeGroot, a question for you!”

“Ask away,” he said, albeit hesitantly.

“What is your opinion,” Spy asked easily, “on people in relationships who cheat on their partner?”

Demo blinked, turned his head to glance at the other two, then back at Spy. “Well, that’s wrong, obviously,” he said. “Extremely.”

“Interesting.” Spy leveled that hard look back at Sniper. “If you think it’s wrong, why don’t you ask why our _good friend_ and _trusted teammate_, the very talented _Sniper_ is choosing to do so?”

Scout blinked, looking surprised. Sniper looked significantly more so, although it rapidly shifted through fear and confusion. Demo only looked surprised for a moment before his expression settled into one of exasperation. “Oh, mate, that’s not—“

“I know for a _fact_,” Spy all but spat, pressing his index finger against the tabletop in emphasis, “that Sniper has been making romantic advances upon _both of you_ within a _remarkably_ small period of time. Unless I’ve made a terrible misunderstanding, I’m led to believe that he’s been playing one or both of you, and been blatantly cheating.”

“How do you know for a _fact?”_ Sniper asked, feathers quite ruffled by the situation.

Spy rolled his eyes. “You’ve been kissing each of them in areas clearly visible from public spaces, bushman. Don’t play dumb. _What_ do you have to say for yourself, and to both our Scout and our Demoman?!”

“Dude, I knew,” Scout said, finally speaking up, breaking the pattern of their rapport like an axe-kick to a styrofoam board, and the room froze.

Inside Spy's head, the cogs were turning, but not exactly getting anywhere. “You _knew?”_ Spy repeated.

“Yeah. Snipes and Cyclops have been dating for like, two months. Every time we went out for drinks they’d end up getting all mushy with each other,” Scout said, not very bothered. “They hide it over here because Snipes is a baby and doesn’t like PDA in front of the guys, but everywhere else, it’s whatever.”

Spy blinked a few times. “And... and still you made advances on him?!” he asked, shocked, gesturing at Sniper.

Scout rubbed the back of his neck, and Demo leaned forward. “Poor Scout’s been playing third wheel an’ all, but he’s had a crush for far longer, see,” he started to explain. “Mostly kept a cap on it, didn't lay hands on the man even, all up until a week or so ago when he got more sloshed than the both of us combined and started blabbing about how he was so jealous of me, getting to be all cozy with the lanky bastard all the time, how he wished that he’d been quicker to say something, except he saw how happy we were and didn’t want to step in on it.”

“I’d been feeling awful myself, really,” Sniper mumbled, smiling sheepishly at Scout, who was blushing and pouting beside him. “Out here with my two best mates, got a crush on both, started dating one, realized I still had a thing for the other one. Felt guilty to hell, even if I wasn't acting on it, see. But we all got back to base, slept it off, and I talked it over with Tavish in the morning, and...” He shrugged. “We talked it out. Brought Scout over—poor mongrel looked ready to faint—and talked to him too.”

“See, now he’s datin’ him,” Scout said, pointing from Demo to Sniper, “and _I’m_ datin’ him,” from himself to Sniper, “but _he’s_ not datin’ _me_, right?” From Demo to himself, and a grin. "Because Demo's just like, a big brother kinda, except not shitty like the ones I got back home."

“Scooter is the newest addition to our little party,” Demo agreed, nodding. “Mickey likes both of us an awful lot, right, but for different reasons. Long as we talk about it now and then, and make sure nobody feels left out or run ragged, things have been going smooth!”

“We're happy like this. What, you didn’t think three people could be in something of a relationship together at once without calling it cheating?” Sniper asked, raising an eyebrow. “Mate, I thought you were French.”

Embarrassment was starting to flood in now, bookended by indignance. “Of course I understand how such a relationship can work, but cheating is by far the more common answer, it was a reasonable accusation,” Spy defended, glad that his mask would hide the way his ears were surely reddening.

Scout was looking him over with an expression that was hard to read. After a moment, he identified it as... something like surprise, something like wariness, something like a begrudging respect. “So you came busting down the door to yell about it?” he asked. “Wait, is that why the table’s clear today? You cleared everyone out for this?”

“Yes,” Spy admitted, because a lie wouldn’t be worth it, and because he’d been trying to be honest about such things with Scout for reasons he likely wouldn’t ever speak on.

Scout was quiet again. Demo spoke up.

“I appreciate the concern, mate, but next time you could really just come talk about it. Hell, I thought you already knew about me an’ the tall one,” he said, elbowing Sniper lightly for emphasis. “Thought that’s what all the questioning was about, ‘round a week ago.”

“Questioning?” Sniper repeated, frowning at Demo, then Spy.

“Aye, he asked about my professional opinion on you, about how dangerous you were, things like that. Thought he was coming by to get blackmail on you, since I’m your boyfriend and all, and I’d know about that sort of thing.”

“As if I don’t have blackmail enough already,” Spy drawled, giving a look of vague disapproval to Demo.

“Hey,” Scout finally said, still cross-armed, still leaned on the back legs of his chair. Spy looked over, as did Demo, as did Sniper. He wasn’t looking at either of them, he was looking at Spy, that odd expression on his face. When he spoke again, his voice was just quiet enough to be noticeable. “Thanks for lookin’ out for me.”

Quiet. For one heartbeat, two. Spy took a breath to say something important. Three heartbeats. Four.

“I need to go check on dinner,” he said, and went back into the kitchen.

Like a coward.

**Author's Note:**

> [[also the jack stauber song of the same name as this kicks ass don’t at me over it]]


End file.
